by Wendy Wax
Nikki sobbed harder. She cried an ocean of wet, salty tears. She did not want Joe to “do the right thing.” She did not want Joe to marry her. All she wanted was for him to love her.
But he does. The voice was soft but insistent. He does love you. He told you so. Repeatedly. But that was before she’d been so nasty to him. Before she’d pushed him away. The soft voice was no match for the fear and anxiety that coursed through her. Or the foggy mushy place that used to be her brain. Words were easy. A baby was real and forever.
“Here, let’s get you under the covers.” Maddie’s voice was soft and soothing. “A good night’s sleep will make you feel better.”
Nikki allowed herself to be tucked in. She fell asleep while Maddie was still clucking comfortingly beside her. Just as a real mother should. Nikki didn’t have a clucking bone in her body.
But her dreams were harsh and torturous. Reminding her in their unrelenting intensity that she was not Madeline Singer and never would be. Any more than she could be Joe Giraldi’s wife. Or the mother of his child.
Chapter Thirty-six
Roberto Dante arrived at the hotel on foot a few days later. The sleeves of his tie-dyed T-shirt had been hacked off long ago. A tattoo of a crossed handsaw and hammer ran down one bare sinewy arm, and his gray hair and soul patch were braided. With his tool belt slung over one shoulder he might have been an aging bandito. If banditos smiled dreamily and bobbed their heads to the seventies rock playlist reverberating in their heads.
“How are things going at the yacht club?” Avery had been worried that the sailing set would find Roberto a little earthy for their tastes.
“Couldn’t be better,” he said. “The women sailors are very friendly. One of the Broad Reachers, that’s the name of the women’s sailing group, brought me a whole tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies.” He smiled. “Perfect for munchies. Even had a couple for breakfast.”
“Hey, man!” Enrico called down from the rooftop. “What took you so long?”
It was 7:59 A.M., but Enrico and his crew had arrived just after sunrise to erect the scaffolding, which now encased the main building, and were scrambling all over it like ants at a picnic. The new steel support beams were stacked nearby. A Dumpster sat within dropping distance. A crane stood ready to hoist the beams into place.
“Let’s see where we are.” Roberto led them inside the main building. They stood in the center of the emptied room and stared up into the ceiling, which had been ripped the rest of the way open. Temporary support poles bore the weight of what remained of the old roof.
“Love this beach and this neighborhood,” Roberto said as he eyed the center point of the room and buckled the tool belt low on his hips like a holster. Matching hammers hung from each side like pistols.
“Haven’t I been telling you that for years?” Enrico came to stand beside his taller, funkier cousin.
“Not abandoning the Keys, man, not ever. But this is nice.” He double-checked the measurements, walked back outside, and eyed the beams. He and Enrico directed the crew members into position. “You ready, old man?”
“Ha! We’ll see who has to keep up with who!” Enrico waved one of his guys over another foot, then signaled the crane operator into position. “Let’s rock and roll!”
Avery spotted Ray Flamingo making his way toward the building in sherbet-hued clothing that billowed in the slight breeze. While all about him were sweating in the mid-July heat and humidity, he looked cool, calm, and collected. He carried a large portfolio and an easel.
“What have you got for me?”
“These are exterior views of the cottages with their new façades, roofs, and walled patios based on your ideas.” He set the first board on the easel.
“Oh, they’re wonderful. And I love these colors. What are they called?”
“We have Flamingo Pink, Blue Mambo, and Banana Leaf. I thought we’d do an assortment of each.” He gave her a few minutes to study the wide planking that would cover the concrete and the burnished steel trim on what would be new windows and doors. “I’ve also done a one- and two-bedroom-unit floor plan that incorporates the remodeled baths and kitchens as well as a sample courtyard garden.” He placed these in front of the other drawings and waited for her to absorb them. “I figured we could flesh them out and do finishing boards when we’re ready to move into that phase of construction.” He said this as if there was no doubt in his mind that there would be one.
“Looks good,” she said, sincerely wishing she had as few doubts as Ray.
“Here’s how I’m seeing the main building roof deck. We’re still going for the wow factor but we don’t know what we’ll be able to afford in the way of finishes and furnishings. I’d still like to see us go high end, but in the meantime I think we focus on maximizing the space and making it as flexible as possible.” He pulled out several boards that showed the space divided in a variety of ways. “If we buy modular pieces and go with planters with lock-down wheels, we have almost endless ways of utilizing the space, which would make it ideal for events. We could even handle a wedding ceremony up there.” He smiled mysteriously. “And the pièce de résistance—we do a Plexiglas railing so that there’s uninterrupted views from every position whether you’re sitting or standing.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, meaning it. “And if we manage to raise the money this place deserves, we’ll go with the best outdoor furnishings and décor money can buy. And if we don’t . . .”
“It’ll still be damn fine.” Ray gave her a rare grin. “I promise you that. We are not going to let a little thing like lack of funds stop us.”
Ray took his confident GQ self off to check and remeasure the locker rooms, then left to call on a potential sponsor. Avery stood in the center of the property and drank in the site. The main building and the scaffolding around it hummed with activity. The sound of shouting and hammering and drilling mingled with the caw of seagulls and the wash of incoming waves. Money was a huge problem, the construction schedule far from ideal, but at the moment the Sunshine Hotel looked, sounded, and smelled like an active construction site. Avery breathed it all in and focused on enjoying it. Because she had no idea how long it would last.
Nikki had fled upstairs to her room after her first whiff of the meal that Steve had unaccountably prepared. Troy had taken one look at the soggy beige casserole, swallowed uncomfortably, and announced that he had plans to eat out. That left Kyra, Maddie, and Avery staring uncertainly down at their plates in a kitchen that looked as if a world war had been fought within it.
“What is this, Dad?” Kyra asked after her first tentative bite of the main course. “I, uh, can’t quite identify the main ingredient.”
“It’s tuna noodle casserole,” he said, seeming surprised she had to ask. “I found the recipe on a rack in the store with a list of all the ingredients. I didn’t know they did that. And I remembered that your mother used to make it when you and Andrew were little.” He smiled almost shyly. “Would you like some more?”
“Um, no. Thanks. I kind of filled up on the salad.” Which had been made of wilted lettuce, an undercooked egg, a half-rotten tomato, and a salad dressing that was made of mayonnaise mixed with other ingredients she couldn’t identify. Kyra was unable to make eye contact with her mother, whose shocked gaze roamed the kitchen. Avery’s eyes were fixed on the bag of Cheez Doodles that sat on the counter. Which said something for Avery’s vision, given the number of things the bag was buried under.
“What made you decide to cook today?” Maddie asked, pulling her gaze from the war zone.
“Well, there wasn’t much for me to do at the site today since Dustin’s not here. So I wanted to try to be useful.”
Kyra stifled her groan and picked up her fork. Her father had apparently listened when she’d read him the riot act. There was no way she could refuse to eat the meal he’d prepared. Slowly, she raised a forkful of casserole to
her mouth. This time she swallowed it whole so that she wouldn’t have to chew and therefore taste it. When she opened her eyes, her mother was watching her. Avery’s eyes were back on the Cheez Doodles; those eyes were filled with longing.
“That’s so nice of you, Steve,” her mother said. “You know what would really top this meal off?”
“What?” His expression indicated he couldn’t imagine anything improving on what he’d already served. But then he’d been so busy serving and watching them eat, he hadn’t had so much as a forkful yet.
“I think there’s a bottle of Chardonnay in the wine refrigerator in the bar. If you wouldn’t mind getting it and opening it—I’m pretty sure there’s a corkscrew in one of the drawers—it would really round things off.”
“Okay.” He stood and turned.
As soon as he left the kitchen, her mother stood and picked up their plates.
“What are you doing?” Avery whispered.
“Shh!” Quickly and expertly Maddie scraped their plates into the trashcan. Several huge spoonfuls of the casserole followed. She hid the evidence under large wads of paper towel. “Not that I think he’s likely to ever look in the garbage can.” Then she freed the bag of Cheez Doodles and ripped the bag open as she carried it to the table. “Here.” She took a large handful before handing the bag to Avery. “Go ahead and put some on your plates. You’ve got to eat something.” She crumbled Cheez Doodles on top of the casserole.
Maddie managed to wash her hands despite the dishes and pans overflowing in the sink. She’d just slid back into her chair when Steve returned with the bottle of wine. “Do you need help getting the goblets?”
“No, be right back.”
As soon as he left, Maddie scooped another large spoonful and buried it in the garbage can. Then she scooped most of what remained in the casserole dish onto Steve’s plate. “Parenting 101,” she instructed. “Good intentions, like good behavior, should be praised and encouraged.”
“I don’t know,” Avery said, munching on a Cheez Doodle. “I don’t think we should encourage him to keep cooking.”
“It’s the effort we want to encourage,” Maddie replied. “We’ll just have to try to get out in front of those efforts a little better in the future.”
“You mean like when Andrew got on that juicing kick and started making us those green smoothies all the time?” Kyra asked.
“Exactly,” Maddie said.
“I don’t know,” Avery said again. “It sounds kind of like faking an orgasm. You could just end up eating a whole lot of crappy food from a chef who has no idea he needs to do better.”
Kyra put a hand to her mouth to cover the resulting snort of laughter as her father returned. He poured them each a glass of wine, then noticed the almost empty casserole dish. The little that remained was now covered in a fine layer of crumbled Cheez Doodle.
“I hope you don’t mind that I added a topping and that we ate so much while you were gone.” Maddie raised her glass in toast. “We couldn’t quite help ourselves.”
He smiled at the compliment and took a bite from his plate. He chewed carefully, considering. “The Cheez Doodles do add a certain . . . something.”
That something was flavor, Kyra thought. And the cheese did sort of mask the smell.
“Everything’s better with Cheez Doodles on it.” Avery smiled and downed her wine. Her mouth and fingers bore evidence of her statement.
Steve took another bite and then another.
“How was William’s concert?” Avery asked.
“It was great,” Maddie said. “They’re really sounding good and the Tampa Theatre was packed.”
Her father took another bite. He winced slightly as he chewed. Kyra wasn’t certain if it was the topic that had been introduced or if he had finally tasted the tuna casserole beneath the cheesy topping. He reached for his glass of water and drank most of it down in one long gulp. “Anyone for dessert?” he asked finally. “I made, well, the recipe said they’re a cross between banana bread and peanut butter brownies.”
“I’m really full,” the three of them said in unison.
Maddie set her napkin on her plate. “I’m going to check on Nikki. Why don’t I take one up to her?”
“Sure.” Without clearing anything out of the way, her father went to the counter and retrieved a brownie pan. After hacking unsuccessfully at it, he plopped a lopsided rectangle onto a small plate.
“What’s wrong with her?” Avery asked.
“Hmmm?”
“Nikki’s been sick for a while now,” Avery said. “What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure but I’m going to make sure she sees a doctor. In fact, I’ve scheduled an appointment for her.” Maddie stood. “Thank you for . . . dinner,” she said to Steve. “I know we all appreciate . . . the effort you went to.” She scanned the trashed kitchen, the dirty bowls and containers on the counter, the crumb trail across the floor.
“You’re welcome,” he said, blushing slightly. “I’m glad everything turned out so well. I’m kind of an old dog trying to learn new tricks, but I intend to keep at it.”
“Great. That’s really great.” Her mother fled and practically ran up the back stairs. As if the ghosts of meals past were pursuing her.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The demolition of the cottage patios and original concrete paths that bisected them had been going on for days. Everywhere Renée looked there were pulverized chunks of concrete. The ground lay in ripped-up clods all around them. Even worse was the constant whine of the concrete saws that pierced the air. The sound plucked at Renée’s nerves. Jangled up her spine. Yanked her back to that horrible week in 1952 when an underground pipe had burst and had to be replaced. The grounds looked and felt much like this the week her father died. But then it had been jackhammers not concrete saws, which according to Avery had not yet been invented.
Even when one saw would stop another would be whining. The sound reverberated in the air and ricocheted off the cottage walls. If power tools had existed in the Middle Ages, the concrete saw might have convinced far more heretics to convert than the rack ever had.
How she could have imagined that this would be a logical time to rethink the hotel grounds she did not know. Yet here she stood, staring at the hibiscus and surrounding trees and vines that obscured the family cottage, trying to do just that. Just do it. She placed the pencil tip to the pad, trying to blot out the noise and all it conjured, and began to draw.
The jungle could be tamed, the grounds brought back just like the buildings. All she needed was a workable plan to present to the garden club, of which she’d been president more times than any other member.
She’d had a view of the hibiscus from the window of the bedroom she’d shared with Annelise. It was a part of every memory, every dream, every nightmare. All these years she and everyone else had believed that she had dealt better with their shared tragedy than Annelise had. While Annelise had freaked out, acted out, and obsessed about uncovering the truth and exacting some sort of revenge on whoever had caused their father’s death and abducted her mother, Renée had accepted reality and moved forward. She had been “healthy”; Annelise had not. Renée had married, borne and raised two children, loved and been loved by John. Annelise had done none of those things. When Annelise had refused to allow the hotel to be demolished and the land sold, Renée had once again moved on, treating the hotel as if it no longer existed, blacking it out in her mind. Virtually every single day of her adult life, she had driven past it, relieved when the trees and vines had swallowed it, convinced that it had no hold on her. That it was only a remnant of the past that had nothing to do with her current life. She’d told herself this over and over until she’d believed it. She’d pitied Annelise for getting stuck and for lacking the ability to move on.
She stopped sketching. Squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to blot ou
t the damned sound of the concrete being destroyed. But the truth refused to be shut out. She might have been the better actor, but she had not moved on or handled the loss like an adult. She had been like a child who closes her eyes, puts her hand over her ears, and spouts noisy gibberish so that she can pretend she doesn’t see or hear the things that frighten her.
She forced herself to open her eyes. Adjusted her grip on the pencil. The hibiscus bush swayed gently, its heavy red blooms nodding and winking knowingly at her. No. It was too large. It had overstepped its bounds, gobbled up ground. She’d cut it back, remove large clippings. When the walled patios were complete she’d incorporate a piece of the hibiscus in every single one of them.
Skirting the bush, she walked to the family cottage.
The door was propped open, as were the windows. She walked inside. It was empty now; stripped of its contents and its personality, there was nothing there to differentiate it from the other two-bedroom units. Strangers would rent it one day and never know that her father had died there.
The concrete walls buffered the noise outside. Images wavered in her mind’s eye. Her father and Ilse behind the closed bedroom door. Had she heard them that night? She moved toward the bedroom. Stopped and closed her eyes trying to hear, trying to remember. And then, there it was floating on the edge of her memory. Voices. Strained and cracked as if they were . . . arguing. Her eyes flew open as she realized the argument had taken place in an odd mixture of English and German, the words harsh and guttural. Was it just Ilse and her father? She stood perfectly still, barely breathing, her heart racing. Or had there been a third voice? Oh, God. Could it have been Heinrich Stottermeir? If she’d knocked on the door, could she have altered what happened? Would the night have ended differently? Could her father’s death have been averted?
Renée held her breath desperately trying to remember, trying to shut out everything else so she could decipher the words that she’d tried not to hear that night and then spent the rest of her life blotting out. Guilt rushed through her. If she’d made herself remember sooner, if she’d spoken up, could she have saved Annelise from all these years of turmoil?